SCORPIO:
Your hard work will be appreciated—but not everyone will be on your side. Watch out for jealous coworkers.
That Monday, during the morning assignment meeting, Marge had come up with her “most brilliant sweeps idea ever,” she said. “We’ll get a bunch of hookers to give us sex tips. We’ll call it ‘inside the seedy underbelly of the sex industry’!” By the end of the meeting, Marge’s idea had been toned down to the “Call Girl Coffee Klatch.”
After the meeting, Penelope and Thomas sat in the back of the newsroom and began phoning all of the escort services in the back of New York magazine and the Village Voice. But trying to get girls to agree to go on camera and talk about their profession wasn’t easy.
“You want me to do what?” said one woman from Discreet Indiscretions when Penelope asked her to “come on air and just talk about your job. You know, the highlights—the good, the bad, the STDs. Kind of like an informational interview.” The woman responded, “And have the cops on my ass? Get the fuck outta here.”
A woman from Eastern Massage was more concise. “You no good. You bad!” she said before hanging up on Penelope.
Finally, Penelope had an idea. As Thomas kept plugging away at the ads in the back of the Village Voice, she called her old pal Olga from her Telegraph days.
“Olga?” Penelope asked when a woman with no discernible Russian accent answered the phone.
“Yes, this is Olga Kain speaking.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Penelope said. “I’m looking for an Olga Khrushcheksvy.”
“Who may I ask is calling, please?”
“Penelope Mercury. I used to know her when I worked at the Telegraph.”
“Penelope, dahling!” the voice said—now in the Russian accent Penelope knew and loved. “It’s me, Olga. I am now vorking on my own. I finally got rid of Stanislas, but he still calls. So I have to disguise my voice vhen I answer the phone. I am my own secretary now.”
“Oh, good to hear,” Penelope said. “Does that mean you are still, um, working…?”
“Yes, of course. Better than ever now. Such demands for beautiful Russian vomen these days. Thanks to God I fit the bill!”
“Well, I’m now working at New York Access, that local cable channel—and I need some prostitutes to come on and talk about their profession.”
“Anything for you, dah-ling, but remember. I prefer the term ‘escort.’ So does your IRS!”
“So, I have to film that tonight,” Penelope said to Dana.
“Why tonight? Why didn’t you shoot it today?” Dana asked.
“Eh, Marge was so excited that she started doing promos for it and some people complained about it possibly airing in the afterschool time slot—who knew we had afterschool viewers? So we had to move the Klatch to the ‘adult swim hours.’ It’s taping tonight at nine. So, after a full day of work and being tortured by Trace Feelyhands, Kandace Karllsen, and Laura Lopez, I get to go back for more.”
And it was torture. Ever since the Y article appeared, the claws had come out.
At first Kandace had been supportive of Penelope’s odd segments if only because she was grateful Marge hadn’t made her do it.
“I (hands swooshing inward toward her heaving chest that was shoved inside a blue strapless dress two sizes too small) am so proud of you (swoosh toward Penelope),” Kandace gushed to Penelope after her “promotion.” On days that Kandace was feeling generous, she would introduce Penelope to everyone as “my protégé.”
“I (swoosh in) was asked to do the segments but told Marge (swoosh out) you were the gal for the job! Besides, my dance card is so full I am afraid it would cause a riot of jealousy.”
But lately Kandace’s largesse was diminishing.
Thanks to the Y item, Penelope—or rather, her segments—had been reviewed by the New York Post (“Atrociously appalling—you won’t believe what they make this poor girl do”—Linda Stasi) and the Daily News (“An addictive train wreck. Like Cosmo on crack”—Micah Stark), further raising Kandace’s ire.
“What is wrong with you?” Kandace hissed that morning after sending Penelope on a coffee run (which Penelope was still obliged to do), “I am a senior anchor here. I used to work at CNN. And when I ask for a venti mocha skim latte I want a frickin’ venti mocha skim latte—not a grande mocha skim latte!”
“I’m sorry,” Penelope said, in what she hoped was a soothing voice. “I forgot—you usually like grandes, remember? You said anything larger gives you gas?”
“I said venti—I want venti! It’s not rocket scientry!”
“Rocket scientry?” Penelope asked.
“Yes! Rocket scientry! Are you deaf?” Kandace screeched.
“No, but I think you mean ‘rocket science.’ ‘Scientry’ isn’t a word.”
“Riiiight,” Kandace said, eying Penelope suspiciously.
“No, really, it’s not.”
“Irregardlessy,” Kandace said, her hands swishing outward.
Penelope stifled a giggle as Kandace stomped away.
While Kandace was openly hostile, Laura seemed to view Penelope—or, rather, Penelope’s unwanted press—as a challenge.
Later that same day Penelope was having a smoke break on the fire escape with David when Laura waltzed outside and announced in a hushed stage whisper, “If you hear anything about me and Jimmy Smits on a boat in Sag Harbor, you know nothing! I’ll tell you all later, but for now, it’s best you’re in the dark. But if Richard Johnson from Page Six or George Rush from Rush & Molloy call, say ‘no comment’ and hang up!” At that last directive, Laura, stuffed into a bright-red sundress that matched her sunburned chest, turned on her heel and stalked off.
Two hours later, after Penelope finished taping a segment on “Bling Bling Baby Baskets—All the Latest Rage,” Laura slunk over to her and, again in a hushed stage whisper, her eyes darting around, said, “Did anyone call about…you know…”
“Not that I am aware of,” Penelope said, “but—”
“Shhh!” Laura said. She put her finger to her lips and scanned the room for eavesdroppers. “It’s for the best! Now remember. If they do call—and they will—about me and one Jimmy Smits. You. Know. Nothing!”
After Laura slunk away, David walked over and whispered to Penelope, “Your press is killing her. I just caught her dialing Richard Johnson in Marge’s office. She’s apparently been ringing him, George Rush, and every other gossip columnist in town all morning.”
Laura, deciding to take press matters into her own hands, had sneaked into Marge’s office several times during one of Marge’s many patrols around the newsroom—which almost always coincided with David’s cigarette or bathroom breaks. Disguising her voice, she had rung up the city’s gossip columnists and left them messages. “I kan’t tell you who theees ees,” she whispered into the phone, “but you vould like to know New York Access entertainment voman, thees beeyoutiful Laura Lo-PEZ, she vas spotted on a boat in Sag Harbor with the hot hot hot Latino acter JEEMMY SMITS!”
On her last dash into the office David had followed her and, afterward, as she was tiptoeing down the hall, yelled at her, “JEEMY! JEEMY! I luv yoooouuuu!”
“Kandace and Laura are seriously driving me nuts, and Trace grabbed my ass twice last week. I don’t know how much more I can handle,” Penelope told Dana, giving Dana’s scalp one last pat with the sponge. “There. All done. Keep holding your hair up though; it has to dry properly.”
“Why don’t you sue that creep for sexual harassment?” Dana asked indignantly. “That’s illegal behavior, and you don’t have to put up with it.”
“It’s not that easy,” Penelope said. “It’s kind of what he does. And I can’t be unemployed again. And if I sue, I’ll have to leave and then it will be publicized and no one will ever hire me again. And it’s not like I’ll get a million-dollar payout. Hell, I don’t even think they’d have a million, if that’s what I was awarded.”
“Do you want me to call your boss and have a chat with
her as your lawyer?” Dana asked.
“No, I’m okay. I’ll handle it, Mom,” Penelope said. “Thanks, though.”
There was a knock at the door, and Lipstick’s voice from outside came floating through: “Helloooo, Dana? Darling? I’ve got the dresses…”
Karl emerged from under the sofa and hit the ground running, a snarling, barking, frothing mess.
“Your dog is bazonkers,” Penelope said as Dana struggled to get up. “Sit. That stuff needs to dry some more. I’ll get it.”
Penelope opened the door to greet Lipstick, who was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt and carrying two explosions of feathers—one black, one green.
“Whoa!” Penelope said, taking a step back. “What the hell is going on? You look like you got into a pillow fight with a peacock and lost.”
“The Met, that’s what,” Lipstick puffed, out of breath from climbing the flight of stairs with the heavy feathery creations.
Penelope took off her rubber gloves and tossed them on the plastic tarp. “Let me help you with one of those birds,” she said, grabbing the bigger dress. Lipstick and Penelope walked to the sofa, with Karl snapping at their heels the entire way, and laid the dresses down.
“Okay,” Lipstick said, taking a deep breath and pulling a few stray feathers from her hair. “I had to work for three weeks straight, but here we go…” She lifted up the first dress. It was a black strapless dress with a ruched bust and a floor-length silk-organza feathered skirt.
“This one is yours, Dana,” Lipstick said to Penelope and Dana. “The green one’s mine. Well, what do you think? Do you guys like them? Hate them? Please tell me something…anything!”
“It’s…” Dana gulped. “It’s…”
“Yes?” Lipstick asked, twirling her hair and chewing on a nail.
“Beautiful. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“They’re amazing,” Penelope agreed.
“Oh, thank God.” Lipstick heaved a sigh of relief and placed the dress back on the sofa. “I was so worried you wouldn’t like it.” Turning to Dana, she asked, “How’s the hair coming?”
“Okay, I guess. I haven’t seen it yet.”
Penelope swatted Dana on the shoulder and pulled out a compact from her purse. She angled the mirror toward her head. “It’s fine. See? You can hardly tell. And when it’s fully dry and she lets her hair down, no one will know!”
Dana asked, “If I might be so bold, I love the dresses, but why so many feathers, Lips?”
“Well,” Lipstick said, sitting on the sofa next to the dresses. “Every year there is a theme to the Gala. Anna Wintour is in charge, and for some reason this year she picked ‘Feathers, Flight, and Fancy.’ It was a nightmare. I had to go to three fabric stores on Seventh Avenue last week to find the right kind and amount of feathers. I looked like a freaky feather-obsessed bag lady on the subway home. And yesterday, when I ran out to replace a zipper, that stalker got another picture of me and posted it. I didn’t even see her. She’s getting good.”
“That’s so creepy,” Penelope said. “I’ve been checking that horrible social website and they’ve been going nuts on you. But on the bright side, everyone likes the dresses you’re wearing in the posts, and no one seems to know about what happened with you and your parents.”
“Yeah.” Lipstick sighed. “Not yet, at least. And I’m ranked ahead of Bitsy. For the first time in my life I made number-one socialite.”
“Congratulations,” Dana said.
“Thanks,” Lipstick said with a wry smile. “But it’s not as great as I thought it would be. My life is the same. It’s just that a bunch of mean girls voted for me. And it’s exhausting leading a double life. I’m just waiting for Jack to corner me tonight.”
“If Anna Wintour is in charge of the Gala, then why does Jack get a table?” Penelope asked. “Don’t they hate each other?”
“Well,” Lipstick said, “I don’t think Anna hates Jack. And I’d say he’s probably more jealous of her than anything. It’s her revenge—invite Jack along to show him she’s still the reigning queen of the fashion universe. I get a table anyway because mummy’s a very big couture client and on the board of the Met.”
“Is your mom going to be there?” Dana asked. “Have you spoken to her?”
“No and no,” Lipstick said, absently plucking at a random feather on the green dress and not looking at either of the other girls. “She’s allergic to feathers so she can’t—and my dad always refuses to attend those things anyway, so I’m in the clear.”
“But you still haven’t called them?” Penelope asked incredulously. “My mother would have hunted me down by now, if only to tell me my father was threatening to crucify himself.”
“Yeah, I guess. But I just haven’t had time. I meant to last week. But then I just didn’t know what to say. The longer I wait, the harder it gets. I’ll do it, though. Eventually.”
“When do you guys have to be there?” Penelope asked.
“It starts at seven thirty so we’ll get there at eight thirty. By then all the eager beavers will have arrived, and we can run down the red carpet, get our photo taken—”
“What?” Dana cried, “Photos? I didn’t sign up for that!”
“Everyone gets their photo taken at the Met.” Lipstick sighed. “It’s—”
“Lipstick, I’m going to murder you. This is basically my first night out since my fucking divorce, and you’re throwing me to the wolves.” Dana, who was beginning to realize just how big of a deal this event was, started to get upset.
“It’ll be okay, I promise. I won’t leave your side all night. You can hide behind me in the photos. Please.”
“Hey, you two,” Penelope cut in. “You’d better get a move on and get in those dresses. It’s already seven thirty and you still have to put on your makeup.”
LIBRA:
Something you’ve been working hard on for quite some time is about to be realized. Revel in your achievement, and blow off the potholes on the road to success. But you’ve overlooked something, which could cause you problems down the line. Think hard and rectify the situation or face the ramifications of a flighty instinct.
By 8:10, Lipstick and Dana were ready to go. Lipstick, wearing three coats of antiperspirant to protect her from glistening too much in what she was sure was going to be the most stressful evening of her life, had applied her own makeup first, giving herself a dark, smoky look complemented by small touches of jade eye shadow, and then done Dana’s makeup and hair—artfully giving Dana, who usually wore little to no face paint, a “clean, fresh look” and pulling her bobbed ’do back with diamondesque pins that also added volume in the back to help hide the patch of faux hair. When they emerged from the bathroom, Penelope’s eyes widened.
“Jesus,” she said. “I mean, wow. You two look like a fairy tale come to life.”
And they did. Lipstick, with her hair cascading over her shoulders and in her feathered green dress, looked positively Botticelli-esque, and Dana, well, Dana was a different person altogether.
She was obviously nervous—her upper lip had disappeared into her teeth—but transformed. Penelope had never seen her in a dress—always in yoga gear or a suit—and while Dana always complained about being overweight, she didn’t look fat at all. Instead, she looked voluptuous in the strapless black gown. Her milky white skin was perfectly smooth and, with her hair and makeup tastefully done, she almost resembled a fuller version of Dita von Teese—if Dita von Teese weren’t a stripper and had a Can-O-Hair–covered bald patch.
“Really?” Dana asked, “It’s okay?”
“Of course it’s okay,” Lipstick said, trying to hide her nerves. “I made it! Jack got me a car for the evening and it should be here by now, so we should leave. But remember, Dana, no talking in the car. All of Jack’s drivers are his spies. Everything we say will be reported back to him. He’ll already want to know why we were picked up here instead of at my old place, so not a word, okay?”
“You got it,
boss,” Dana said.
Lipstick found her little black leather gloves and put them on to hide her red sewing-scarred hands. She took a deep breath and exhaled. “Let’s go, then!”
“I’ll walk you down to make sure you don’t get stuck on anything or molt all over the place,” Penelope said.
The girls piled out of Dana’s apartment after securing Karl, still snarling, in the bathroom (“He gets angry when I go out,” Dana explained. “He pees all over the place”). On the second-floor landing they ran into Zach, who looked like he’d just gotten up.
“Wow,” Zach said, looking only at Lipstick. “Princess, you are a vision.”
Lipstick turned three shades of red while Penelope nudged Dana and whispered, “That’s him. The guy that Lips, you know…”
“Where are you ladies off to?” Zach asked.
“The Met,” Lipstick said, “and we’re late—talk later!”
“Well, have a great time,” Zach said, continuing up the stairs to his floor. “And stop by after if you want; it’s going to be a late work night for me, so I’ll be up.”
As the girls rushed down the stairs, Penelope joked, “Oh, I’ll bet he’ll be up, heh.”
“Oh, stop, nothing is going on!” Lipstick said. “We’re friends. That’s it.”
“Well, he looks like he wants to be more than just friends,” Dana said.
They got out the front door and Penelope giggled. “Me too! Let’s all share! I’ll throw in my crush, Thomas.”
“You guys are crazy.” Lipstick laughed, climbing into the waiting Town Car.
“All right,” Penelope said, stuffing Dana in after Lipstick. “I gotta go get ready for the hookers—have fun!”
It took twenty-five minutes (spent in total silence) to drive uptown to the Met and for Jack’s driver to jockey into position in front of the red carpet entrance at the bottom of the steps leading into the museum. The photographers were lined up four feet deep behind metal barriers, all the way up the white, marble stairs to the entrance.
Mercury in Retrograde Page 18